Float like a Cannonball
by lahnee
Summary: Journalist Samantha Manson is assigned to cover a story of the infamous "Phantom" in nearby Amity Park, and after enlisting the help of a few locals, finds more than could ever fit in a column about a superhero. AU, D/S.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So, first fanfiction, long time reader. And that's all I can think to say here.

Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any characters affiliated with it. The title, _Float Like A Cannonball_, is from Damien Rice's song "Cannonball," which you should most definitely listen to.

* * *

Samantha Manson was not having a good day.

First of all, her car broke down on the way to work, and she managed to get covered in grease while trying to pry the hood open. Then, when she realized she couldn't fix it, she had to do what she least wanted: give up and call a tow truck, then call a cab.

It was bad enough to have to admit defeat - it was even worse to pay good money for it.

By the time she had managed to get to work, she was instantly sent back out on an assignment to cover the grand re-opening of Dalv Corps' Amity Park labs, which would have gone fine - if Dalv Corp had actually _bothered _to bring their factories up to code. Isn't it every good journalist's job to be thorough and sifting in their work? At the very least, she shouldn't be arrested for it, even if she did verbally harass Mr. Masters, Dalv Corp's head honcho himself. He deserved it, anyway. Think of the ozone.

But no, apparently none of this mattered - because she doubted very much that she would get summoned to Mr. Rice's office for a pat on the back.

Which was where Samantha now found herself, scuffing her large black combat boots on the linoleum floor of his office, and then erasing the marks, over and over again. Mr. Rice, on the other hand, had not moved since she had entered - the middle-aged man was currently holding his balding head in his hands, elbows resting against the desk. Usually he would have been shouting at her before the door even opened, but today was different.

Today, he was waiting for her to make the first move.

Samantha was not one to take bait, but then again, the 23-year-old didn't have the patience to stand around in a staring contest with a bald spot. She huffed, tucking a short raven lock behind a pierced ear.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" She said flatly.

"Samantha, how many times is this?" He asked. Samantha didn't like the way he added a small chuckle to the end of the question. He didn't look up.

"How many what, sir?" Samantha stared straight ahead at the wall, whereupon hung framed articles of varying shades of parchment and yellow, a few ribbons, and one rather ostentatious diploma from some school that she couldn't quite make out. She began to pick at the edge of her short green mini-skirt - another company rule that she had broken, but one that Rice had given up on long ago.

"You _know_ what, Manson," he growled, then sighed. "I've lost count. I've lost count how many times your tree-hugging _lifestyle_," he spat the word, "has gotten _me _into hot water. Do you even know _why _I had you cover that story?"

Samantha sighed a simple "no, sir." Normally, she would have bit back at the insult to her vegetarian choices, citing how at least _she_ wasn't killing thousands of animals a year for a measly burger. But, she knew that it was better to just go along with Mr. Rice's tirades - she'd been through it many times.

"I had you cover it because Mr. Masters is a large contributor to this paper. Because he's someone who's out there doing something for this community. Because I thought, just once, you would keep your "save the planet" _crap_ to yourself, Manson! But no. It's like you don't even realize you're supposed to be covering the _actual story._ I can hardly even print your articles - no matter what you're supposed to be covering, you find some poor squirrel in a trap or a 3-legged dog with kennel cough and stop caring about the real assignment_!_" He was so angry that even his shiny bald spot had gone beet red - something Samantha had to try very hard not to laugh at.

"I'm sorry, sir," she managed to get out.

"I know you are, Manson. You always are - you're _always_ sorry. But I don't need sorries - I need stories. That's why I'm firing you."

"_WHAT?!" _Samantha's unnaturally violet eyes jerked downward to the man's receding hairline, her face heating, tongue getting ready to lash into overdrive. The flowers that Mrs. Flannery, the secretary, had put in a vase earlier, seemed to wilt a little. Samantha may be a small girl, but you wouldn't be able to guess that if you saw her angry.

Suddenly, and very out-of-character, Mr. Rice began to laugh, completely unaware of the woman's gaze. His laughter continued to grow in volume until he was banging his fist against his desk in mirth. "Oh, so you _do_ have emotions - looks like I lost that bet." Mr. Rice removed his head from his hands and leaned back into his (leather, she cringed) chair. "Look, the fact is, I can't fire you. You have a commitment to something...a passion. That's more than most journalists can say nowadays. I admire it."

Samantha sighed and pushed another dark lock of hair from her eyes, still displeased at the low trick he had pulled, but steadily growing more curious. What was he getting at, "admiring" her "passion?"

"See, Manson," he continued distractedly, as he searched through a drawer "I need passion here. But I also need serious work. That's why I'm assigning you this." He held up a manila folder between three ink-stained fingers, smiling crookedly at something. Something which Samantha was sure to find very, _very_ unfunny.

She glared a moment longer, before snatching the folder in her own small hand. She opened it very cautiously, never removing her gaze from the still-chuckling Rice; so cautiously, in fact, that a few moments later, he pointed to the exposed papers and asked her, more or less, if she planned to actually _read _the assignment.

Her gaze shifted down and she instantly took in the first word: "ghost."

"No," she said simply, tossing the folder back on Rice's desk. She leaned over towards him, leveling the middle-aged man with a glare that could turn glass back to sand. "_Since when do you think I do stupid assignments._" It was not a question.

Rice was not affected. "Since you decided to insult our largest benefactor with slander," he stated simply, blinking at her. "At least read it, Manson."

Half a minute ticked away. "We've had lots of requests to cover the Amity Park Phantom."

A minute and her glare was still going strong - he'd have to pull his trump card. "If you do this one assignment, and do it well, I'll let you have that environmental column you've been begging for."

The file and Samantha disappeared so quickly that Rice was almost convinced that _she _was Phantom.

Gregory Rice shook his head. He was going to give her that column anyway, but why not get a popular article and a few weeks to himself out of it?

_Plus, with or without her uncanny ability to pry the truth from any situation, the most that she'd bring back from this assignment is a bruised ego and an empty sheet of paper._


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:**I'm back! The first chapter was to test the waters and see what type of interest this fic could stir up (hence why it was shorter). I'm pretty pleased with it so far (me being a new author and all) but reviews are _always _welcome! Anywho, some things that I should clear up:

**1)** This is AU, and as such, Sam has never met Danny and Tucker. Everything has happened, just minus Sam.

**1a)** Sam and Jazz met during Sam's freshman year at college; Jazz was doing a project for Psych which involved her "mentoring" a freshman student.

**2)** This is set in the future, after all three of our favorite heroes have graduated college. This would make them 23, and Jazz is slightly older (did the show ever mention her age? I can't remember).

Anything else is currently planned to be explained in later chapters. If you have any questions, feel free to PM them and I'll try to answer!

**ALSO:** I'm not set on an update scheme yet, but it will probably one chapter every few days, give or take. I'm also not set on a length for the chapters; as such, some may be shorter than others.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Danny Phantom or any character affiliated with it. The title of this fic is taken from Damien Rice's song "Cannonball," which I highly suggest you listen to.

**Without any further ado!**

* * *

Samantha's brain was melting, she was sure of it. This had to be some huge, sick joke - she was sure of that too. But what she was most sure of was that Rice would not live to see another sunrise.

She clicked on the next link, which looked promising enough, only to find that, _completely surprisingly_, it wasn't. It was a giant, sparkly shrine to the "Dreamiest Ghost Prince of Amity Park!" She almost screamed, but changed her mind at the last moment, and decided to take out her aggression on her desk instead; the familiar metallic _thud_ was like music to her ears. She bent down and was pleased to find another small dent in the half-inch thick metal side of her work desk.

"_Combat boots = 37. Desk = 0," _she thought with a wry smile, inspecting the side of her favorite anger-relieving object. She could name when almost every dent was created - and the assignment she had been researching right before their birth. A particularly deep ding was from when she had uncovered a local dog-fighting ring; another lower one, slightly shallower than the first, was from a pollution scandal last summer.

(The only exception to the assignment rule was also the largest - a 5-inch long gash high on the desk. It was from a side kick that she had thrown when her mother had had all of Samantha's dark, gothic clothes replaced with frilly dresses. The kick had been so forceful that her boot had actually sliced the metal. Nobody messes with Samantha Manson's clothes.)

She frowned at the folder that had fallen off the abused desk. All it had contained was - in Samantha's professional opinion - a giant load of crap: some news clippings, a few blurry photographs, and a timetable chronicling the ghost. The only thing of marginal importance was a fact sheet on "Danny Phantom" - which included his name and a picture, and not much else. The only thing that Samantha had even considered mildly interesting was that ghosts even _had _first names. Needless to say though, she would be calling him Phantom only - the "Danny" part only made her remember how he was once alive, and she didn't want to sympathize with a ghost.

Along with that, Samantha had considered Phantom's face for a while when she saw it: a boy, not much older than her, if at all, and something vaguely familiar in the features. Not "familiar" in the sense that she knew him - she was good with faces - but _like_ someone she knew. It was confusing, to say the least.

Samantha stood up from her crouch, still frowning, and walked across the small room to fall face-first onto her lavender-clad bed. She knew that the answer was right in front of her eyes, but the last thing she wanted to do was face it. She buried her face farther into the sheets, as if to escape from the solution, but it wasn't really of any use.

_I have to go to Amity Park. _

Said town was almost 4 hours away from the city, which was bad enough, but mostly she was just stubborn - she had wanted to write up this stupid assignment tonight and get started on something _real_: the environmental column. But that wasn't going to happen.

She said some nasty things about this "Phantom" right then.

"Sam? Everything good?"

Samantha groaned. "I'm fine, Jazz," she said, speaking into the dark purple sheets that enveloped her bed.

"What was that? I just heard some bangi--" Jazz began, before being abruptly cut off.

"I said," Samantha lifted her face from the mattress, "that I'm good, Jazz. Thanks."

The door opened then, a tiny jangle of protest coming from the wind chimes that Samantha had placed there last year when she had moved into Jazz's spare room after finishing her undergraduate degree. Jazz waltzed in uninvited, taking in a sweeping glance of the space with her intelligent green eyes. Samantha groaned again.

"The door was closed for a reason, Jazzy," Samantha stated, pushing her face back into the bed as Jazz flipped on the light. "And you know I don't like to be called that," she added for good measure.

The older girl ignored her, as usual. "Seriously, Sam, you get one bad assignment and you act like they sacrificed a cat," Jazz ducked deftly to dodge a pillow lobbed at her head from the raven-haired girl. She righted herself, fixing her trademark turquoise headband as she continued. "Not funny."

"_That _was what wasn't funny, _Jazzypants_," Samantha grinned to herself, knowing that the nickname would miff the red-headed girl. She really couldn't stay angry at Jasmine Fenton though - Jazz had almost single-handedly gotten Samantha through college. At first, they only knew each other through Jazz's senior psychology assignment - mentor a new student - which somehow evolved into coaching Samantha through her entire life. They knew each other too well now.

Even if Jazz _was_ constantly calling her Sam.

"So, what happened this time, Sammy?" Jazz joked, flicking Samantha's short ponytail. "Try to slip another stray cat Rice's chicken sandwich?"

Samantha raised her head up high enough to shoot Jazz a look that clearly said that that wasn't it.

Jazz held up her hands defensively. "Fine then. What's your punishment this time?"

Samantha pointed to her desk without even lifting her face. Jazz followed the direction of the Goth's black-tipped finger to the folder by the laptop. She strode the few feet to the desk (stopping briefly to admire a new - and rather deep - dent) and opened the folder.

And with a small, strangled noise, she dropped it.

"It's that bad, I know," Samantha remarked with a snort, but was surprised to find Jazz looking ruffled, long red hair flying every direction. Samantha would say that Jazz looked very nervous, if she didn't know better. "Jeez, Jazz, you only dropped a folder; it's not that big of a deal."

"No, just - ah - paper cut, hehe," Jazz said quickly, sticking a finger into her mouth. "I's fihne thoh," she added, around it. She removed the finger then, with a loud sucking noise. "So, who's this, uh...'Phantom'?"

Samantha's eyes narrowed - it wasn't like Jazz to get all jittery over a cut - but she dismissed it with a sigh. "I don't even know. Some stupid backwater town got bored and invented their own Jersey Devil, only this one supposedly flies around and kicks ghost butt."

Then, it hit Samantha like a club - _Jazz_ was from Amity! A plan formed...maybe she _would_ finish this tonight....

"Hey, Jazz, you can help me! You've gotta know all about this Phantom guy," Samantha sputtered. She wasn't going to be deterred by Jazz's earlier statement; she knew the elder girl had to have at least _heard_ of Phantom. Samantha raced to the desk to grab her notebook. "Come on, tell me everything!"

Jazz looked like a deer caught in the headlights, and waved her hands dismissively she spoke each word very fast. "No, uh, I really can't. I mean, you said it yourself: backwater town, stupid myths, all that. Ghosts in general are stupid anyway."

Samantha shook her head. "I still have to do this. Rice'll give me the environmental column. No more galas or ceremonies or stupid ghost stories...come on Jazz, you _know_ how much this means to me!"

Samantha had never seen Jazz look so torn. The girl was worrying her lower lip, as if having a serious internal battle. Samantha was almost about to say forget it, when Jazz finally spoke up.

"Fine, fine; why am I getting all worked up?" She said, tone chipper - a little too chipper, even by the redhead's standards. "_But_ I really don't know anything about Phantom." She flipped over the sheet with the picture of said ghost on it - something Samantha had barely glanced at - and scribbled something.

"That's my parents' address. They're ghost hunters. They'll help you." She smiled a large smile. "I'll call and tell them to expect you in the morning - and don't worry, I'll drive you," she added, sensing Samantha's protest to leaving the city.

"Well...thanks, Jazz," Samantha whispered distractedly to the retreating girl, trying to commit the address to memory.

Jazz turned around at the doorframe, her long hair swirling around her waist. "Don't thank me yet," she said slyly, "You still haven't met my family."

And with that, she turned on her heel and darted out of the room.

---------------

By the afternoon of the next day, Samantha had packed up her small duffel bag with all the necessities: toiletries, clothes, pencils and notepads, and the strongest, largest bottle of Asprin she owned.

It would be a long weekend of interviewing the locals, and she did not want to deal with it without medicinal backup.

With nothing left to do, she walked down the hall to the small kitchen, figuring that food would help stifle the growing sense of doom in her stomach.

"--don't worry, she won't, she's-- Yeah, I know, ok? She's my friend, I couldn't jus-- Look, I gotta go. She'll be over by dinner." _Click. _"Sam! G'morning!"

Samantha glanced at the overtly perky girl before she reached for a bowl out of the cabinet. "Who was that, Jazz?" She poured some cereal and a large helping of soy milk and sat down, not taking her eyes off the older girl.

"Oh, that? Nothing. Just Tucker. He's excited to meet you, he was just helping me make some...arrangements," Jazz finished lamely, picking up one of her many psychology magazines. Her eyes jumped to Samantha's, as if gauging the slim girl's reaction to these words. Samantha sighed heavily and scooped up her cereal. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

"Jazz, I know when I'm being kept in the dark, it's part of my job," Samantha accused, waggling her spoon in the air to emphasize the words, but Jazz simply stuck her hand out and grabbed the utensil without looking up. Even after four years, Samantha was never ceased to be impressed by Jazz's reflexes. Jazz just said that it was a result of practice, but never really divulged her methods.

"I'm not keeping you in the dark," Jazz said, wiggling the spoon back at Samantha, before dropping the silverware to the table and ending the subject. "Now, are you ready to go?"

Samantha stared at the spoon, considered her cereal, and shrugged.

"Much as I'll ever be. Fill me in on the way?"

--

Four hours and some change later, Samantha was gazing at the most ridiculous house she had ever seen. _Well,_ she corrected herself, _the house is normal. It's just that - what IS that? That..._thing_ on top._

She shifted her duffel bag on her shoulder and waited as Jazz fumbled with her keys - which, as it turns out, Jazz didn't even need, because the next moment the door was flung open, and the largest man Samantha had ever seen had Jazz in a giant bear hug.

"JAZZY!" the bear-man boomed, "WELCOME HOME!"

"Is that Jazz, Jack?" A slender woman appeared next to the behemoth. She looked closer to Jazz - slim and lithe. Samantha couldn't comment much further however, because the woman was also wearing what appeared to be a jumpsuit, bright blue, which covered most of her features.

"Hey, mom!" Jazz gasped, waving (rather pitifully, Samantha might add) from beneath the large man's grip. She finally managed to wriggle herself free and give the woman, her mother, a quick hug. "Ah, and this is Sam," Jazz added, motioning to the stoic girl still standing outside.

Samantha opened her mouth to correct the nickname - it had been contained to just Jazz until now - but found herself interrupted.

"Nice to meet you!" The large man (who Samantha assumed must be Jazz's father - though there was little resemblance) bellowed. He grasped Samantha's delicate hand in his, and shook. She looked up at him and tried to take in his features - he had a large goofy grin plastered across a large face, trimmed by black hair, all of which was stuck onto a massive body.

Samantha liked him.

"We've heard a lot about you over these years, Sam," continued the woman. "We're glad to finally meet you. I'm Maddie, Jazz's mother, and this is Jack, my husband." She motioned to the large man, who had finally stopped shaking Samantha's hand.

Samantha cleared her throat. "Thanks," she said politely, rolling her shoulder. Even though her arm might have been dislocated, she was at least glad that he hadn't given her the same welcome hug as Jazz.

"Well!" Maddie exclaimed, "Come on in!"

She followed Maddie inside, and found her eyes assaulted by...normalcy.

Everything was completely normal. Normal couch, normal paint, normal carpet, normal T.V., normal ray gun, normal coffee table...

Wait. Ray gun?

Jazz caught her staring, and mouthed the word, "ghosts." Samantha caught on - Jack and Maddie must really be serious about all this supernatural stuff.

Perfect.

"So..." Samantha began, but then, for once in her life, found herself without words. How to approach this? "You guys, uh...research ghosts?"

"GHOST!" Jack screamed. Maddie gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"We do," she said simply. "I'm sure you think that's rather weird of us," she added with a laugh. She pulled back the attached hood of her jumpsuit so Samantha could see her flame-red hair and small, delicate features.

"Oh, no, not at all!" Samantha lied, playing with her own dark locks. "I'm just...here for a story. I was wondering if you could help me with it, actually."

A short, electronic beep caught Maddie's attention, and she looked sideways at Samantha. "How about we talk some more over dinner?" She smiled again and walked through an archway into what Samantha assumed was the kitchen.

Samantha analyzed the room before deciding to take a seat on the couch - far away from the ray gun.

She glanced at Jazz, who was talking to her dad animatedly - probably, Samantha assumed with a smile, about psychology. _Maybe she gets her looks from her mom, but she definitely gets the obsessive personality from her dad. _Samantha felt the corners of her dark-stained lips curl into a smile.

"Dinner!" Maddie called as she stuck her head around the corner. Jack was the first up and into the kitchen, planting a small kiss to Maddie's lips on his way by.

Samantha and Jazz exchanged looks - Jazz's was faintly embarrassed, but Samantha's was supportive. She felt..._at peace_, she ventured to guess, with these people. More so than with her family, at the very least. She was so caught up in sorting these feelings out that she blindly followed Jazz toward the kitchen.

So blindly, in fact, that she barely registered the voices outside the door to her left, growing steadily louder.

"--was _so_ awesome, man. When did you even get that one?"

"How should I know? You know how random these things are. Now shut u--"

Samantha didn't catch that last part.

Actually, the only thing Samantha caught was a door square to her forehead, and now said Goth found herself stumbling backwards, tumbling onto her back.

She had to blink the dark spots from her vision before she could focus on the hand extended towards her, and eventually she regained the ability to trail her eyes up the attached arm to shocked blue eyes and messy black hair.

Only one thought traveled through her mind at that moment:

_Good thing I brought that Asprin after all._

_

* * *

_And Danny makes an appearance! This chapter was originally two, but I decided to combine them. I think it was a good decision, don't you? Hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one is written - I like to stay a chapter ahead of the curve - so check back soon!


End file.
